


Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy

by APendingThought



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist (Anime 2003), Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Angst, Big Brothers, Brotherly Bonding, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fever, Flashbacks, Heartbeats, Hurt/Comfort, Medical Examination, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-14
Updated: 2018-05-14
Packaged: 2019-05-07 03:31:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14662404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/APendingThought/pseuds/APendingThought
Summary: Short indulgent vignettes for the brothers Elric, focusing on what intimacy means to them and the people in their lives who keep them in one piece.  Although I adore the bond the brothers share, I'm not so creative as to have them tread the incest trail.





	1. TINKER

**Author's Note:**

> TINKER  
> tin·ker  
> noun  
> 1\. (especially in former times) a person who travels from place to place mending metal utensils as a way of making a living.
> 
> a person who makes minor mechanical repairs, especially on a variety of appliances and apparatuses 
> 
> 2\. an act of attempting to repair something.

“I won’t do it! You can’t make me!”

Bare-chested and flushed to the hairline, Edward Elric was making his point even if he did strike as less than authoritative garbed down to his underclothes. Hours of agonizing adjustment were the cause of his invariable soreness. Whirring drills, metallic scrapes and bone-rattling probes dealt by a skilled, though unyielding, hand were only a few of the tortures he’d endured— all the while lying perfectly still.

It was more humility than any man—let alone a proud state alchemist—should endure.  
But he had endured and so Edward Elric (formerly Miserable Wretch) was ready to put Rockabell Clinic miles behind him—with or without her consent.  
The ladies of this house had iron apron strings and no matter how bluntly he’d tried to disentangle himself, he always wound up ensnared.  
Maybe it was her smell? For all the truths he’d unmasked in his short life, the pink of her cheeks and the flash of her eyes when she fumed were mysteries he’d never unravel with alchemy.

“Will you stop being a child and let me complete your discharge evaluation!” It was plain insult how pretty she appeared to him the angrier she got. Fine, straw-blonde strands hung in disarray about her shoulders, though she rarely bothered combing. “It won’t take more than a minute!”

Ed was not relenting without a fight. 

“Why can’t I be friends with people not so bent on abusing me? Between colonel asshole and you, I dunno who makes my life more miserable!”

“I could be doing a million other things today instead of arguing with you!”

“I got important work to do and this stupid exam is just holding me up! I ain’t got time for pointless protocol!”

She fired back, both fists ground into her hips. Despite her smaller stature, she was never intimidated when he raised his voice.

“This isn’t just protocol, Edward! I just don’t want to see you back here three days later!”

Alphonse, the more temperate of the brothers, offered up meekly. 

“Um, Brother, I think we can spare the minutes?” He had somehow managed to shove the bulk of his metal frame into a neutral space, having no desire to see his extremities grabbed and hurled about like weapons. 

Edward scowled, crossing his newly furnished right arm over his chest. “Sure! Take her side, Al! It’s bad enough she’s taken my shirt hostage! I’ll walk all the way to the station without a stitch! You know I’ll do it!”

Threats fell on deaf ears in this house. Winry shoved him forcefully back down on the steel table, the metal of his upper thigh clanging against the surface. 

“Why are you acting like this? It’s not like there’s any injections!”

“Pffft! I ain’t scared of injections!”

Al stifled a giggle behind his oversized gauntlet.

“You’re being ridiculous!” Winry stomped her foot.

“And you’re wasting my damn time!” Restlessness was his default setting and he had already devoted enough of his ebbing patience sitting still for her repairs. Al took an opportune moment to smirk at his brother’s frustration, mocking as only a suit of armor could.

“Brother has a penchant for petulance after touch-ups.” Though his helmet could not change expression, the smile behind his voice was mile-wide. “Perhaps it would help if you explained what this exam entailed?”

“I shouldn’t have to break down anything to that oaf of a brother of yours Al! He’s just being stubborn as usual!”

“Like you’re one to talk!” Ed bristled, fists clenched in his lap. Exasperated, she brushed back a loose strand that had escaped her ponytail. 

“Ok, Ed. Bottom line. I need you to sit still and more importantly, shut up so I can assess the vessels in your shoulder are seamlessly connected to the port. Your right arm is located closest to your heart and there’s a risk factor. I also need to screen for nerve damage and relay gaps between synapses because this fitting made adjustments for growth.”

“Ha! I knew it!” Ed grinned, puffing out his chest.

“I never said you got taller! Since last year, Granny noticed the dimensions of your rib cage have expanded. I need to make sure I didn’t mess up any calibrations. Jeez Ed, the last time I did this you were only eleven!” 

“So were you!” 

She jabbed a finger in his face. “Furthermore, genius, I need to make sure you’re not running a fever before you traipse outta here ready to conquer the world! Even a slight temperature can spell disaster after any adjustment. I don’t care what privileges the State gives you! Until I complete this exam, I’m not forking over your discharge papers or your shirt!”

Ed bit back hard on his response, rage simmering on the ice cold exam table. Back then, Granny Pinako had carried out all his exams. Things were different now where Winry’s hands were concerned. His automail was still just mechanics; something he could in every sense detach from. She might be an expert at his hardware but the flesh of him was a different matter.

He had changed. His once round, soft belly had flattened to a firmer core. His back and shoulders had gotten sturdier. Even if he hadn’t grown much taller, he was at least stocky enough to kick the ass of any fully grown man who dared cross him. But she had changed too, in gut-clenching ways he could barely comprehend. The crumpled white tank she always wore now filled out to make his face burn like a brand whenever she got too close. The shape of her hips, the slope of her throat had suddenly caught and held onto his notice, even the shade of her cheek--smudged with oil from his joint-- had become a feature newly and disarmingly fascinating.

She had always been hard, never soft like the flimsy socialites that paraded the streets of Central. She preferred smelling of engine oil and static to rosewood or honeysuckle. Yet here and now, closer than anyone could ever be to him, she had acquired a softness that belonged only to her. Something he was at once both afraid of and desperate to touch.

Alphonse shrugged his metal shoulders in surrender. “It seems like you lost this one, Brother.”

“Fine.” He growled at having to concede. “Just be quick!”

“Geez, Ed! You weren’t nearly this worked up last time!” Winry groused, rummaging through her cabinet for supplies. 

“Well, last time you were flat as a pancake!” Ed shot back.

“Edward!” She shrieked, one hand flying up to cover her chest, cheeks hot pink. 

He pounced gleefully on this. “How could I not notice? I’m an adolescent after all.”

“So is Al but he’s not a pig like you!” She slammed her medical bag on the table beside him.

“Uhhh, don’t involve me?” Al begged, cowering from his corner. Ed pitied him. The poor guy had a hard time concealing himself on a good day

“Well, at least I’m not the only one with raging hormo-GHLK!“

Before he could finish, she’d jabbed a glass thermometer beneath his tongue. He wrinkled his nose at her in one final gesture of defiance.

“Breathe through your nose and don’t move!” 

“Heard that before.” He mumbled past the intrusion. If he weren’t being held captive by her glare, there would be an alchemist-shaped hole in the wall and he’d be gunning it directly to Central on foot. He made attempts to control his breathing as she adjusted the stethoscope around her neck, inserting the buds into her ears. 

“I need to listen for flow disruptions and those sounds are super fine. So try not to make any noise, ok?”

Ed had time to pull in one last gulp before she leaned over his shoulder and invaded his personal space. Instantly, he felt the involuntary flush of heat. Clutching tight to his knees and summoning all patience, he gritted his teeth over the thermometer. He could already feel his nerves snapping and popping like frayed live-wire. Did he have a fever? His heart gave an uncomfortable stutter at the thought. If he had a fever, Winry would never let him leave! He felt his hairline begin to prickle with sweat. She hadn’t even touched him yet!

His panicked thoughts jolted at the touch of metal pressed firmly against his chest.

“Mmf!” He jerked in his seat.

“Stay still, I said!” She tightened her grip on his shoulder in irritation. Begrudgingly he obeyed and to his surprise, she checked herself with a murmured apology. She positioned the bell firmly across the point where automail met clavicle, face fixed in concentration. The delicate sounds of the venal pulses were audible only to trained mechanics, at least according to Granny. It was all Ed could do to keep from fidgeting. His throat felt drier than a desert.

“Winry? I’ve always wondered. Does brother sound different than other people?” Al, the lucky jerk, was at least allowed to talk without having his head bitten off.

“Just a moment, Al.” Distracted, she shifted the bell downward, where the apex of his pulse juddered maniacally. Ed shivered when, without warning, she tightened up a manual  
screw in the crook of his elbow.

“Yes and no. The automail diverts from the bloodstream so the two networks are kept independent. Ed’s nervous system can send signals to his limbs but if a primary synapse wears down or any of the auxiliary connections sever due to…ahem… repeated wear and misuse, then Granny would have to open him up again and reconfigure the port settings from scratch.”

“Well…what do normal port settings sound like?”

“In the worst cases I’ve read up on, damaged automail can interfere with the heartbeat, blocking the way blood gets carried to the brain. Fortunately, this is Ed’s right arm and the circulatory apex is located in most humans slightly towards the left. Healthy port synapses should respond silently to stimuli around the site. So if I were to pinch him just here…” 

She gathered a tiny bit of flesh from his shoulder between thumb and forefinger, pressing sharply. Ed grimaced but knew better than to shout. Winry closed her eyes a moment, brow furrowing in concentration. She couldn’t be hearing anything more than the urgent tempo drumming against his ribs?

“Deep breath. Relax.” She gave his shoulder a little squeeze.

Ed stiffened, pulling in an obedient breath through his nose. He told himself he wasn’t nervous. Not at all. This was just like any other checkup. If anything, he was more restless and ticked off at being delayed. That would explain his rapid heartbeat. Winry frowned, she listened with such concentration one would think she were trying to crack a safe. 

“Hmmm…Nothing shrill. No whirrs or pops, no fizzes, or relay interference which means no rogue ends. Lift your arm for me?”

He obeyed, mentally drifting into the techniques his teacher had taught him, releasing his physical mind from his body in order to transcend calamity; to be anywhere else but five inches from the prettiest girl in Amestris. 

“Ed…are you ok?”

Ed growled, feeling a minute triumph at Winry’s blush when she realized he was unable to respond. She hastily removed the thermometer and held it up to the light, frowning. 

“Gyuh!” Ed worked his jaw that had been so tightly clenched. “Finally!” 

“Hmmm….” Winry seized his flesh hand at the wrist to feel his pulse. A hint of rushed panic lilted in her voice.

“Maybe I should run a screen for sepsis? But how! I always sterilize my equipment, there’s no possible chance of cross-contamination! What if I--? No! There’s no way I could have--” She rambled on as Ed took back his wrist.

“Can I just have my shirt back?” He pleaded weakly. 

“Well, I didn’t detect any signs of abnormality. That means if your automail malfunctions, you won’t end up in cardiac arrest. But that doesn’t explain…. She peered again at the thermometer, shaking it back down. “…unless this thing is faulty.”

Ed tugged on his black T shirt in haste. The sooner he could make a hasty retreat, the better.

“Well, s’been nice being poked at and all but we—“

“Wait! I have one more test.” Winry said with a finality that sent a shudder down his spine.

“Awww man!” Ed groaned. “I thought you said I was fine!”

Her lashes lowered. “Just to be sure. Come here.” 

Ed sat stock still in his seat. Before he could dart away, she leaned forward and pressed her lips to his forehead. Ed shrank back against the wall, trapped by the veil of her hair swaying before his eyes. Her lips were soft and slightly damp. His heart began to thud so hard against his chest, he was sure later he would find one of the screws in his shoulder coming loose.

Too soon, the contact was gone and she withdrew. Ed collapsed back, speechless, his shirt tangled in his lap.

“No fever. You’re cleared.” She waved a hand dismissively, rising from her stool to fetch the discharge form.

Ed wanted to say something, rustle up his usual cocky farewell, or at least a muttered cuss. But all he could manage was a shaky exhale. He barely felt the piece of paper crumple in his hand.

“Brother? Are you alright?” Al ventured, catching his brother’s stunned weight against his side and leading him to the door.

“Y-yeah…” He stammered. “In working order.”


	2. TAILOR

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TAILOR  
> tai·lor  
> ˈtālər/  
> noun: tailor; 
> 
> 1\. a person whose occupation is making fitted clothes such as suits, pants, and jackets to fit individual customers. One who mends fabric items.
> 
> Metaphors aside, Pinako has a knack for mending fabric of the soul.

Pinako knew better than to get between an Elric and his mission. 

For better or for worse.

Like his old man, there was no telling the boy no. She kept an eye on the sturdy, set and upgraded back of him as he trudged slowly up that hill, back to charred nightmares of his past, back to the sound, smell and sight of …not her. Teeth clamped hard as a vice in a tight line, one flesh hand knuckled white from gripping the spade. Tough work for any developing fifteen year old (and he had always been too scrawny for his age) but age didn’t factor in to this equation.

The sky was angry, a sea of rumbling gray cloud mass. Soon it would explode into deluge and then he’d really be sorry. She was just there to ensure he didn’t kill himself—as always—and lend a hand. 

The steel point pierced the blackened ground with a hard clang against stone. This area was rocky, uneven, riddled with ash and other remains. It would be a bitch to excavate…as she had already informed him. Nothing grew here on this dead hill anymore. It would take time to untangle and sift. His shoulders weren’t nearly broad enough, his back not yet built up for this kind of leveling. He’d never had the body of a farmhand, he was a bookish lad by nature. 

No point in explaining all that to him now.

Work not yet begun and he was already breathing like a billows, sweat standing out on his forehead. He was far too pale. Pinako shuddered. This was not going to end well. 

“Let’s get this done.” He swiped in irritation at his brow. Sweating before he'd even lifted the spade.

He ignored the brutal chill even as his body shook to rattle teeth. His muscles worked tirelessly like a mechanic steam engine. Though the stumps where the automail connected flesh to mechanic must have smarted from the dampness, he did not pause until his gut ordered it. Looking back; facing his greatest sin once more. He could not stomach the reminder of his hubris, could not physically hold it in. 

It was penance, clear as day. 

She was tempted more than once to try some endearment, some soft, sweet term to bring him back to himself, wrench him away from his grim task. Words he’s last heard as a child: “honey, sweetheart, darling…” But Edward Elric had not been a child for quite some time. 

The wind picked up, whipping sheets of frozen rain down, prickling and relentless. Steam rose from his overheated skin and she was already calculating which tincture would best quiet the wear in his newly fitted iron joints; fending off the rust which must be forming. Several times his body forced him to a halt. He staggered, gagging and coughing, to lean against the husk of a dead tree, emptying the contents of his belly. Yellow bile gushed out onto the Earth. Only then did she beg him, rubbing one hand over and over across his heaving back. He was soaked, rain water mingled with sweat. The rapid beat of his heart between his shoulder blades is worrying.

“Don’t push yourself. Let’s go back.” 

Like a dolt, he refused. “No.” He wiped his mouth and spat over his shoulder. Straightened his back. Clutching at the handle of his spade for support, he stood up.

“Ed, let’s go on home.” She persisted, hoping the sound of his name would bring him back to himself. 

“I can’t walk away from this until I know for sure.”

At some point the chugging steam engine inside Ed’s chest grinds to a halt. He stands motionless in mire to his ankles, while she wisely hunts a patch of firm grass to stand in so as not to sink. 

A scrawny lad of fifteen shouldn’t feel the same aches that gnaw naturally at her aged bones, the rheumatic throb of the joints when the atmospheric pressure changes, the inflammation on the nerves. She can sense a storm brewing in much the same ways he can. Chills rolls down her spine when Ed’s shoulders begin to shake with unchecked laughter. She rushes to his side, placing a timid hand across his forehead. His skin is warm but she cannot tell if this is due to his labors or delirium. In any case, she’s calling it. They are done. She tugs him up a little too roughly to his feet and leads him by his automail hand back down the hill.

Ed’s clothes are drenched, sagging heavily on his thin-boned arms like wet leaves on a tree branch. His hair is a disaster and will need a hard combing before he’s recognizable in public again. They return from the black hill and its gruesome memory, over the threshold and into sanity. The fireplace and Den’s curious whining greet them, the eager hound pressing his warm side into Ed’s leg. Ed stumbles more than he walks but he won’t let her guide him to the couch. She doesn’t intervene, settles in just to observe him as he lumbers into the parlor.

She shakes out her raincoat with one firm yank and hangs it up. Then she looks back at Ed. He is standing in front of the fireplace, staring at the fire glowing in the grate. He looks ill.

“Sit down before you freeze, Ed.” It’s an order he readily obeys. It sets her hackles on edge.

She scurries to the washroom. Dry towels. Soap. Oil for his joints. At the last minute, she shoves a thermometer in her apron. Best see to all of him. 

She finds him collapsed on the sofa, dripping muddy water down his face and legs. She opts not to scold but to assess. He won’t tell her what he needs so she’s got to read his silence. He is cold, she can tell from the click and rattle of his teeth. One after the other, she pulls the wet heavy boots off his feet and places the muddy things into a wash basin. She works on his feet first, rubbing his ankles dry and squirting lubricant between his steel toes. The pants will have to go next if she’s to mend the hip joint. Unbuckling the belt at his waist, the pants come off in four rough yanks. He’s in his boxers, completely unashamed.

The towel she tosses up to him lands in his lap. Gruffly, she orders him to dry off but when he makes no move—eyes half lidded and glazed with exhaustion—she takes over. She pulls the dripping black T-shirt over his head like a child and vigorously rubs him down until his frozen skin flushes pink. She scuffs his hair and undoes his braid, careful not to tug on the wet, gnarled strands.

Inconspicuously her wrinkled hand finds his forehead.

“Yer awful warm, runt.” It’s a credit to how bad he’s feeling when he doesn’t snap back. She gets the hint. Back off.

His forehead may be hot but the rest of him needs thawing. She sets a large copper pan of steaming soapy water on the floor and places his feet in them.

“There. Feels better, don’t it?” She rubs his calf vigorously, hoping to earn a response.

He nods, gaze still faraway even when she pushes a mug of steaming ginger tea into his hands and orders him to drink. Tea won’t stop the fever she knows is coming but it might take the edge off here and now, calm the shivers some.

He blinks down at the steam curling up into his face but makes no move to drink. She sits beside him on the couch and waits, preferring to let him decide. Seconds or minutes tick by. She nudges his wrist holding the cup and he starts, blinking down at the cup as though noticing it for the first time.

“Don’t want any?”

He shakes his head. She takes it from him and puts it aside. Pick your battles.

Once free of the mug, he careens slightly, gravity bringing his body down sideways until he is bent at the waist, head finding a resting spot in the center of her apron. She slips the thermometer past his lips, relieved when he doesn’t squirm or protest. The mercury when she examines it three minutes later flashes a scarlet warning. She shakes it down and prods Ed’s shoulder hard enough for him to blink.

“Think I’ll put up macaroni, what do you say, Ed? With a little butter and cheese?” 

“Not…not hungry.” His ghost of a voice rises from him like a wisp of smoke. It’s the first real words he’s spoken since they got back and they are laced with resignation. His eyes close and stay closed, utterly spent. Soon he is unconscious and does not move no matter how hard Den licks his face. The faithful dog whines up at her, questioning.

"He's had a rough day, Mutt. Let him sleep, we got work to do."

She gets little rest that night, between touch ups to his automail and making the rest of him comfortable. He's fallen asleep pitched forward awkwardly on the sofa. That won't do, he'll wake up in extreme pain and port damage if she lets him lie like that. She covertly arranges his limbs until he is flat on the cushions, arms crossed neatly over his chest and covered with a blanket. It’s a difficult night, between his restless turning and murmuring. She begins to rethink the wisdom of letting him go up that hill.

Sure as spit, he’s running a fever by daybreak. He’s not even coherent enough to snap back at her. She pokes at him anyway with sharp words and insults, but he only barely lifts his head from the sweat damp cushion, even when she slings the “pipsqueak” dagger at him. Instead of cussing, however, he only whines. The insult method is better than any thermometer. He’s sick as a dog.

“Lean forward.” She makes him sit up and drags the back of his shirt to listen to his clogged pipes. She blames the rain. The fever is a different story. He's got exhaustion to thank for that, not to mention dehydration from all the upchuck. The stethoscope tells the whole story.

Morning is long over and he'll need to convalesce, whether he consents or not. She drags him to his feet and marches him into the adjoining bedroom, letting him flop bonelessly onto the mattress. The newly pressed sheets must bring only momentary relief because no sooner does he settle when he begins to toss, restless and hot. He punches his pillow, taking out his frustration on it. His body can’t regulate his internal temperature the same way as other folks. Automail can’t sweat and steel heats up fast. Heat compression from the metal frame pinches down on nerves, already singing from the chills and aches. He cringes at her very touch even as she tries to soothe.

“Gotta knock that fever down whether you like it or not.” She mutters, wringing out two damp washcloths. One she drapes over his forehead to leech the heat out from the top down. Lifting up his neck, she sets down a lump of ice wrapped in a dishcloth on his pillow. Rivulets trickle past his cheeks and onto the sheets once his feverish skin starts melting the ice but it brings relief. She places a folded washcloth over his aorta, that being the largest blood center to cool the rest of him. 

She leaves him muttering to himself about a colonel and a long overdue status report, a slurred string of codes, a curse and a tense stiffening of the spine. The man he reports to must be a gem if Ed has nicknamed him “bastard”. But then, Ed never did get along with kids his age, it serves to reason he never learned to play fair with adults.  
Den spans the bed back and forth in a worrying circle until she gently nudges him aside with her foot. The gray whiskered dog is antsy and won’t leave Ed’s side, clambering up on his hind legs to swipe worriedly at his cheeks. He whines and paws at the cushions when no assuring pat is offered in return. 

“Leave ‘im be, mutt.” She yanks him down gently by the collar and delivers the needed pats.

He sleeps while she messes in the kitchen, throwing together this and that. She hasn’t been around to pull up fresh vegetables or go to market so whatever she finds in the larder will have to do. She whips up a soup that doesn't seem too offensive. Garlic, carrots, spinach and potatoes. Noodles for some substance. A chicken bone for minerals.

Though he tries to refuse, she digs both heels into the ground and feeds him anyway. He makes a mess of it but he gets it down. Next, hot lemonade with a tot of whiskey to force him back to sleep. Anything to keep him quiet. She sits him up, one hand steady on his back as the other lifts the warm cup to his lips. She lets him sip slowly, carefully. Old as she is, her bones hold out. She won’t let him go until the entire cup is empty.

The fever mellows him out. Complaining means a fight, the opposite surrender. She’s seen him pull this before; become a weakened, desperate version of himself. So feverish he can’t even command his own body. Not like he hadn’t asked for it, though. Equivalent exchange--one dirty job in place of another.

He spends one full day hovering in and out of consciousness, burning up and unsure of what he’s seeing or saying. The next day he is a bit more lucid though his cheeks and the bridge of his nose are flushed. 

She spares him the “I told you so” lecture and forces her homemade remedy on him instead.

“You drink this brew up and you drink it fast! It’ll bring down your fever!”

Ed doesn't budge. He's back to being feisty, even if he can barely lift his head.

“My fever will go away on its own! If I drink that sludge, I’ll just bright it right back up!”

“Lookie here, I lumbered outta here at five in the morning all the way to Sternbridge to forage these herbs! They don’t have to taste good, they just have to work so let ‘em!”

“I don’t have to if I don’t wanna!”

“This ain’t about whatcha want, idiot!” She shoves the cup under his nose again. “Never heard a grown boy whine half as much as you!” She pushes aside his sweaty golden bangs to palm his forehead while he cusses under his breath. 

“You feel warmer than you did this morning.” She murmurs. “Don’t drink it if you haven’t the stomach. See where it lands you.”

She leaves the mug on his night table and exits. Gauntlet thrown.

He’s unconscious when she ventures to open the door again. His arms are flung carelessly above his head, face turned to one side on his pillow, desperate to find the cool spot. 

His breathing sounds steadier. She reaches out to press the pad of her fingertip against his upturned wrist to check his pulse. 

By morning, the cup is empty. 

He sleeps until his fever breaks and sleeps well past Winry’s return from Central. She sits at his bedside in her rocker, knitting like grannies are meant to, and watches him. She tells herself he needs looking after, reminders to sip some water and eat some food. But it’s more than that.

_He’d been so damn idealistic. Though even now after five years he had not yet forgiven himself for it. How wide-eyed and excited they had been, scouting the market for the raw materials, choosing only the best._

_“Hey, are you kids old enough to be buying this?” The apothecary had asked, scanning over their items in the basket._

_“Um, it’s for our mother.” He answered, hiding a conspiratorial smile._

_If she'd had the power, she’d go back in time just to serve his eleven year old self his entire ass to him._

_They had spent every cent, had even stolen to get all they’d required for the biggest affair the world had ever seen. Selecting only the finest, hoping that with the highest quality ingredients that they could welcome their mother’s spirit back to a corporeal being lush and healthy. More perfect that the original had damned her with._

Oh his intentions had been good-- more than good. But in the end, he'd always need someone wiser to stitch him back together.


	3. SOLDIER

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sol·dier  
> ˈsōljər/  
> noun  
> noun: soldier 
> 
> 1\. one who fights

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The origin story.

“Brother? Do you remember when I was born?”

Ed sighs. “How could I? I was just a baby myself.” His next words are recited, someone else’s memory of that night. “They sent me to the Rockabells the morning you came. Right on schedule too, or so Granny says. Balmy day in Spring.”

“You were different.”

“Heh. You bet I was.” 

Edward had arrived unannounced, an early birth and he’d made it clear he was coming whether the world was ready for him or not. He was Trisha’s firstborn—a test for any woman. Grandmother Pinako’s eyes would gleam with irreverent glee whenever she scolded Edward with the memory of his birth, usually meant as a barb whenever he made her life purposefully difficult.

“Alphonse was such a sweet babe! So timely and so quick, delivered neat as you please as though he didn’t wish to inconvenience a single soul, including your mother.” She would sigh with the memory before jabbing an accusatory finger at Ed.

“You on the other hand, were a brat from the first breath! Unannounced, unexpected, poor Trisha got no sleep at all with yer bowling and yer shifting! When you finally got tired of kicking up her insides, you made yer entrance upside down! Couldn’t even get that right!”

If these words ever stung Ed a little too deeply, he gave no sign. He’d been born a fighter or so his mother had told him. A difficult birth and barely a happy ending.

“You were born in breech, too impatient to wait until your due date. Yuriy had to be fetched in the dead of night! It lasted hours and for all that time, you never once turned to make it easier for us to deliver you! Ultimately, my son had no choice but to cut you out and even then you were not through causing mischief!”

Ed knew the story. Far from nuzzling a sweet smelling infant to her breast, Trisha spent the hours after delivery terrified for her baby’s life. Ed’s premature condition meant he’d been whisked away by Granny to be cleaned and rubbed to encourage his first breaths. The infant had not cried out the moment he’d been lifted from his mother’s body, lungs still developing and fragile. Male babies were less hardy than girls, Pinako reminded. She had sadly urged the new parents to decide upon a name quickly lest the child die before he could be christened.

“Well done, wife.” Hoenheim’s eyes did not glisten with the optimism of a newly made father as he stared at his firstborn squirming in his swaddling. Hoenheim had always been a strange man and this detachment, this delayed astonishment at his own creation, was the best he could offer. This infant represented something the world expected him to love and he had not the first idea of where to begin.

The child had been laid in a specialized glass box meant to keep him warm, regulated and free from germs as his lungs developed. None could touch him yet. Not until he’d survived forty eight hours.

“What shall we call him?” Hoenheim at least had the good grace to let his wife select a name.

Pale and weak, too full of grief even to weep, Trisha whispered: “Edward.”

“Then Edward, he is.” 

How Trisha’s brown eyes had wept when Granny, smiling like the sun, placed her new son pink and healthy in her arms. The baby squalled, incredibly hungry and took immediately to latch. His appetite was insatiable, as though survival was the first and only lesson he’d ever remember. Weaning him from the breast to the bottle had been a chore. The child knew right away who his mother was and what love she bore for him. 

The look on Hoenheim’s face when he held the infant for the first time was something she’d never forget in all her years. Hoenheim treated his son like glass, examining with cold precision his tiny fingers, the button of his nose, the heat that radiated from him as his little lungs heaved up and down.

“Edward.” Hoenheim addressed him.

The infant responded by releasing his bowels and shrieking.

“Regardless of your father’s limitations, you were wanted Ed. Both your parents wanted you more than any possession they shared. You were part of them both and they loved you.”

Inside, Edward knew this to be true of his mother. Her love had always been easiest to read.

“You proved a lot to your parents.” Pinako recalled. “If you hadn’t pulled through, I doubt very much Al would be here. The will to keep trying would have all but left your mother. You can’t know what it’s like for a woman to lose that battle.”

Alphonse had been born just a year later when Ed was just learning how to toddle. There had never been a time when one brother could recall being without the other. Edward used to watch his mother as they bathed, the clear shiny scar running up her belly from her navel frightened him.

"I always made mom cry." His hands shake so he fists them stubbornly. "I did nothing but cause her pain."

“No, Ed. Those weren’t tears of pain. They were tears of joy. You were the first. The first is a trial for any mother. Al couldn’t help being the easy one, after all, Trisha had already survived having you. But your first born is the answer to your first prayer. In the end, you came out alright, kid.”


	4. SPY

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> spy  
> spī/  
> noun: spy 
> 
> 1\. observe (someone) furtively.
> 
> 2\. discern or make out, especially by careful observation.
> 
> 3.collect information about something to use in deciding how to act.

_Brother? Are you awake?_

_Lub-dub….lub-dub…lub-dub..._

With Spring came the boys, Pinako’s withered form resembling a turnip as she waited against the horizon to greet them. Loving jibes, false vows of violence, and Winry’s soft hair were only some of the greetings exchanged.

 _Resembool._ Ed liked to muse, sounded an awful lot like the English: “reassemble”. 

Far from the cold ranks of the military and away from the puffed up chests of the alchemist’s in their academy, Ed allowed himself to be a child. To demand second helpings. To get his face dirty. He shed his gloves and coat, not minding the stares he got from the sheep and goats. The herders were a different matter. People in this town knew to mind their own affairs.

Grandmothers in the village told a tragic fable written by a poor cobbler’s son.

A foolish young girl beset by enchanted red shoes letting pride lay claim on her soul. Forced to dance until exhaustion near killed her, in the end she’d had her feet brutally lopped from her body as repentance for her sin. Bloody sacrifice lay in wait for those who turn their backs on God. The people here never mocked her lesson nor did they ask too many questions. 

Here in the birthplace of their darkest sin, there was also redemption. With granny and Winry, the tattered pieces of his heart arranged back together; perhaps not in a perfect semblance? But there was peace—as close as they would ever know it.

Alphonse never slept. Privately, he calls the night his meditation. His thoughts unfurl in a never-ending stream while Brother succumbs to dreaming. His consciousness does not exist so much as it persists and memories take effort if they do come at all. When his mind can move neither backward nor forward, it wanders.  
He likes to imagine, sometimes, what sleep feels like. Studying the gentle way brother’s chest rises and falls, he can almost summon the memory--of tired limbs, sore muscles and the sweet bliss of doing nothing at all. 

A steel body does not tire therefore it cannot know. Brother looks so peaceful, his breathing so gentle. He imagines it must feel terribly rewarding.

Morning comes and Al detects the temperature of the house rising. Sounds from below of Winry lighting the stove and of Granny grinding the beans for coffee alert him that it is dawn. Al wants to help so his task when day breaks is to run to the shed to fetch milk and cream from the ice tub in the shed.

Ed stays overlong in bed, tucked safe and warm beneath the duvet. For once Granny has no need to yell for him. His growling belly and the warm kitchen do the job. Winry works tirelessly to please Ed though it makes a blush rise to her cheeks for him to recognize it. 

“Hey Gears –for-brains, can’t you even keep yer mechanics outta the kitchen?”

Winry’s eyes flash from the counter top. In her hand she holds a tiny instrument resembling a light drill which she is using to whip hot milk into a bubbly froth.

“Stay out!” She shrieks. “This was supposed to be a surprise.”

“You handling power tools in the kitchen ain’t no surprise at all.”

“Honestly, Ed!” Winry huffs.

Ed’s scoff changes when she presents him with a mug of fragrant coffee crowned with a dollop of milk foam sprinkled with imported powdered chocolate.

“Wow.” Brother is rarely reduced to only one word. His lips are moist from the scent of freshly baked bread and in the dimmest corner of his mind, Al shares this delight. Mother’s kitchen had always been warm, filling the house with sweet smells. Ed’s descriptions fall short, of course. _Yeast and cinnamon._ _Woodsmoke and vanilla._ No matter how hard he tries, they are just words slipping through his heavy gauntlet fingers. No substance at all. 

His existence in this body is one limitation after another. 

He can, at least, gauge temperature, as that was a part of alchemy. He can also detect changes in momentum and velocity, movements that make him aware of proximity. But he has no nerves to tell his soul when to smile or frown. 

When Ed rips apart a steaming bun Alphonse can almost taste it on his tongue. He can still appreciate the way Ed devours his breakfast like a starving man. Like most teenagers, Brother doesn’t care what passes for breakfast in the city. Thick, lumpy porridge without sugar or cream from the canteen and bitter black coffee usually serves as sustenance. While his brother may view this austerity as part of his penance, watching him consume the stuff makes Al thankful he cannot eat at all.

But in this life, fresh brioche baked by a pretty girl is breakfast. Ed may as well have been offered a key to paradise. He gobbles up the sweet buns one after another, dunked in Winry’s coffee and warm chocolate concoction. 

As Al watches him something faintly resembling sensation flutters within the hollow spaces between his visual plane and hard chestplate—a pang is the closest he can come to defining it. Here is his Brother acting so strangely—smiling, cheeks flushed and warm, lost in every one of his senses by the beauty surrounding him. When Brother is lost it is usually in thought. Drawn out and pale, tirelessly searching for answers to their shared salvation. After all, he’s survived all this time on far less. So when fate grants him a small token such as Winry’s smile or the taste of warm bread on his tongue, he seems a different person entirely.

“This is SOOO good!” Ed groans, patting his distended belly. With the buzz of fresh hot coffee singing in his veins and the sweetness of jam on his lips, he lets himself bask.

“Winry began preparing it the night before your arrival. Dough like this needs ample time to rise.” Pinako muses from the kitchen sink. “She’s been practicing.”

“Yeah? Who knew she could make something besides hinges!” Ed grins, licking away a berry stain of jam from the corner of his mouth. It’s not a “thank you” per se but in Brother’s language, it’s as close as he gets. Winry doesn’t realize this yet but blushes all the same, offering more butter and jam.

Al lowers his gaze and keeps the timbre of his voice upbeat.

“Please be sure to remember this recipe for when I come back, Winry!” 

It’s hard to keep regret from seeping through the cracks in moments like these.  
\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
_The night Nina was changed. The night innocence shattered forever. Edward sat for hours on the steps of Central office in a black humor. He sat and sat and at no other time had the brothers resembled eachother more. Alphonse without a heart to break and Ed as still and silent as a tomb, letting the cold damp slowly overtake his body, until his jaws locked from tremors and his automail complained at the slightest breath._

_Brother, are you cold?_

_Ed does not answer._

_Alphonse listens for the heavy thud of Ed’s heartbeat against the downpour, pounding relentlessly against the cement. No matter how dark the nightmare, the beat of Brother’s heart is the one reminder of what he once was and still could be. He is not a dream or a ghost nor some displaced entity. He is here and now so long as it keeps beating. A beacon in the dark of night._

_It’s not fair, brother._

“Hm?” Ed pauses, looking up from the volume he’s studying. The lamp has been burning long past curfew and the Rockbells have long been asleep. "What's up, Al?"

 _If I'm still real, why aren’t my emotions ever enough to actually feel anything?_

Ed cocks his head, puzzled by the question. His golden brows draw together.

“Come again?”

_I can't remember what it was like._

"You got me, Al."

Al pauses, uncertain of the best way to continue. Brother has it all wrong.

_But I can’t experience things the way you do._

Ed’s body sags, suddenly appearing far older than his fifteen years. He cannot speak so Al continues.

_It’s not the same as the taste of fresh bread. Not the same as smelling a rose. Not the same as pulling in that first big breath after a workout. All those stupid things you don’t even think about, Brother! Things I ignored when I had my flesh. Now they’ve become these precious treasures, the reason I’m fighting. Those things that prove to you day after day that you are part of this world._

“You are too, Al.” Ed says softly.

_Doesn’t always feel that way._

Ed bends his head, covering his eyes with his bangs. He is silent, his shame smoldering in the air like smoke.

 _Brother?_ Al hesitates. _Do you promise you won’t be ashamed of me if I tell you?_

“Course not, Al.” Ed's pantomime of upbeat is enough for him to continue.

_Ever since I first became aware in this body I’ve been hearing it. Maybe it’s some part of medical alchemy that hasn’t fully been explored yet but the blood seal doesn’t just connect me to the armor._

“How do you mean?”

_It’s like…it’s constantly seeking its source._

“Source?” Ed repeats, one hand absently touching his sternum.

_I don’t have to listen to it all the time. I can tune it out and focus on other things. But in a way, it’s useful. It’s like I always have you around, even if you’re two towns away. I don’t think I’d be able to do that if I weren’t in this body._

“Heh. I’ve always had an eye on you, Al. Ever since we were little.” He muses. “I know you miss those other things and we’re gonna get ‘em back, I promise. But just remember. I can experience all the good things but I also have to put up with the bad. I can sleep easy knowing nothing can ever harm you.”

_I don’t get that privilege. That time after the Fifth Laboratory. When that creepy Homunculus carried you out? That was the first time I couldn’t hear it._

“I’d lost blood.” 

_At first, I thought you were dead. But then I could hear it again on the way to the hospital. Slowly. The beats were quiet and very far apart. But you were alive and you kept going. Your body has the ability to heal itself all on its own while mine? If it breaks, I need someone else to fix me._

“You know I’ll always come through for you, Al.”

 _I know._

Brother can read him like one of his books. Every dent, every creak tells a truth.

“Is there something you need?” Ed closes his book.

There isn’t an easy way to answer this question. It isn’t something he could ask for directly so he attempts to explain it away, spinning what sounds like a theory and hoping Brother will understand all the same.

_During a fight, when I have to become your shield, my armor takes the impact. The attacks don’t feel like much of anything, they just ricochet off me. Like what I remember a tickle being but not in any pleasant way. Anyway, that’s not important. What’s important is what happens after the alchemy is over and the smoke settles. When there’s no more noise but your breathing._

A frown passes over Edward’s face. His brother doesn’t understand. Al sighs, tries again.

 _When you press against my armor, I can feel the vibrations your chest makes and it reminds me of what it was like to have that inside me. It’s not the same; more like an echo; something between sound and sensation. No, I’m not telling it right. I’m not complete; won’t ever be complete until I get my body back._ He stammers out these last words, making a clumsy mishap of his request.

Ed presses a hand to his chest. 

“Oh.” 

_I told you it was stupid._

“Al. You know I’d do anything for you.” Ed’s face darkens. “After all, this is my fault.”

_Brother. We got ourselves into this together. Without you, I’d be lost forever in front of the Gate. But…I guess for now…_

Ed reaches up and lays a hand on Al’s forearm. “Yeah. For now.”

Stepping back, he tugs his black shirt off in one easy motion.

Al’s arms sway open and Ed clambers into his lap, automail limbs scraping against his sides. In this way, Ed appears every bit the child against his brother’s massive frame. Al can sense how Ed’s body shudders as his arms encircle him, recoiling the moment warm skin makes contact with his steel. 

“Agh! Al, you’re freezing!”

 _You could heat it up if you like?_

“No.” Ed relaxes. “I’d rather leave alchemy outta this.” His brother sighs, bracing himself with gritted teeth against the broad chestplate until gradually his temperature adjusts. Al notes the transfer of heat creeping along his steel frame. 

For a pregnant moment, neither move. Al sits acutely aware of the blood churning behind his brother’s chest. Ed lies flat against him, warming the surface of him. Al channels his focus solely on his brother; wholly aware of Ed’s body. Each second his heartbeat contracts, sends a whisper of electricity through him. The rise and fall of his lungs expanding as he breathes in regular patina. Even the way his full belly gurgles with contentment sends pleasant signals to Al’s core. This is his brother, all of him. The hot beating core of him, his scent, his heat, his breath all his to partake.

“I offered it up, y’know.” Ed whispers.

_What?_

“When Truth took you away. I was so desperate. I didn’t know what to do so I painted a seal on whatever I thought they might take.”

_That was foolish, brother. You can’t live without your heart._

“All the same, I thought it was a fair trade.”

_No Brother. Your life for mine isn’t a fair trade at all._

His brother has no wish to argue. His eyes close and he just breathes. Al so often watches his brother sleep that it’s become etched into his memory. When Brothers sleeps, Al gets to spy on him. Lying peacefully on his side, one arm curled up by his chest as a cat will curl her tail around herself, personifying the very core of sleepiness. Al had opened his eyes to many strange things before, some he would rather not remember, but Brother tucked up against him? That was different. Not terrible, just different. The last time they'd been this close was on the island where teacher had left them and Brother had whined so much about the cold, Al had allowed him to join their bodies together to share their combined warmth. The night had begun with the pair lying back to back, neither willing to endure even the smallest scrap of skin from touching the other, and ended with Brother clinging to him like a limpet, murmuring sleepy tales of all the stew he intended to eat before Al finally broke down and clocked him. Al reaches out, quietly tousling his hair with his fingers as he sometimes liked to when he slept. It reminded him that he was real. Sometimes he needed to be reminded that anything was real, that he was home in Resembool. 

_Brother,_ Al says quietly, fearing he’s about to move. _I can feel your heartbeat inside me._

Silence. He tenses, but then his embrace is soft again, and tender as before. Other than a curt sigh, Ed doesn’t respond.

_It’s very fast._

Al can sense his brother’s lungs go silent and still. His heartbeat has suddenly become more agitated, and he marvels at the effect the words have had. Al can picture the deep red organ as it pumps within his brother’s rib cage, armor unto itself. The size of a closed fist. Thought it is small, its power is wondrous, pushing past the point of endurance, his brother’s heart is as fortified and strong as his own steel shell.

_Humans are incredible. Their bodies have their own powers. Like the time we felt the newborn move in that lady’s tummy. Remember how amazing that was?_

“Mm.” Ed’s eyes close at the memory. His breath finally releases in a slow exhale.

_Humans have a special power all their own for creation. I guess we’re sort of like that connection. We’re one even though we’re not attached like that mom and her baby._

Silence reigns for a beat and then Ed speaks.

“Al? Do you really feel...alive?”

_Well. I can sense the echo of your heartbeat inside my armor. Like a ripple through water. I can also feel how warm you are, Brother. You’re like a furnace. It’s nice. Sort of how I imagine licking the topping off frothed milk._

Ed smiles against him. “Now I understand why you love kittens so much."

 _They’re cute._ Al murmurs. To Ed, his voice must sound awfully amplified.

“Yeah, but they’re also tiny balls of heats purring away inside you.” He splays his fingers out across his brother’s hard chest. 

Intimacy has always been a sacred thing between them. Though he has no heart, there are times when Al weeps. Sometimes he can name the reason but words don’t come. In such times, Ed comforts him in the way only big brothers know how. 

Al wishes he could do more for him—but his brother is content to suffer in silence. It’s his job.

“Al, I’m so sorry. For everything, I’m so—“

_Brother?_

“Hm?”

_Don’t talk anymore. Please._

Espionage is a silent act, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes it feels like spying on Brother. When he truly thinks he is forgetting how to live. Brother is a wealth of information, whether he knows it or not.


End file.
